


This Summer I Hear Them Drumming

by ardenjames



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Character Death, F/F, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, its a Kent State AU so its SAD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 01:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15328827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardenjames/pseuds/ardenjames
Summary: Grantaire is back from a tour of duty, Courfeyrac just burnt his draft card, Marius’ grandfather is a war hawk senator, and Enjolras is leading a student activist group at Kent State University. Or: A group that actually became historic. Vietnam War AU.





	This Summer I Hear Them Drumming

**Author's Note:**

> hello thank you for reading this! -arden

Bossuet walks into the Musain bar with a grim look on his face and a yellow card in his hand. It’s not like he was expecting it, but it was still a shock to open up his mail this morning and read the words Feuilly and Courfeyrac had seen just a few weeks ago:

_To: Bossuet E. L’Aigle._

_You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States of America, and to report at Camp Perry on January 9 1970 at 0800 for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station.  
_ _Willful failure to report at the place and hour of the day named in this Order subjects the violator to fine and imprisonment. Bring this Order with you when you report._

_Signed,  
_ _Javert, Member of the Local Board._

Bousset’s hands shook when he first read the letter, images of war and guns and, for some reason, Captain America bouncing through his head. His first mission had been to call Joly, let him know what was going on. His second was to find some whisky.

So when he reached the Musain to find their entire motley crew of college students (and college dropouts, as Courfeyrac often reminded them), Bossuet felt his stomach drop.

“Bossuet,” Jehan chirped from his seat next to Courfeyrac, “what’ve you got there?”

Bossuet said nothing, holding the card up before tossing it on the table in front of Enjolras and Combeferre.

“I, uh, might not be able to make that protest you guys planned.”

Enjolras looked stone-faced, Combeferre nods, eyes sad, and Courfeyrac stood up to pull Bossuet into a deep hug. Bossuet didn’t know how to feel, only that he didn’t want to let down his friends. He wasn’t as brave as Courfeyrac of Feuilly who had both ignored their draft summons and moved to a house at the edge of town, staying out of trouble as much as possible. He wasn’t as smart as Combeferre or Enjolras who had their academic deferments for graduate school, and he wasn’t ill like Joly, who couldn’t join the war even if he wanted to. He was just Bossuet, and he was stuck.

“You can come with us,” Courfeyrac said into his ear. “Move in with Feuilly and I. We’ve got a good system for doing odd jobs, everything paid in cash, never having a run-in with the pigs.”

Bossuet shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to put you in that position. I’m not as resourceful as you and Feuilly, and bad luck seems to follow me around. If I dodged, I’d be picked up in an instant.”

“We can fight this,” Enjolras said, stoic as always. “We’ll talk to some of the law firms in town, those who are sympathetic to the cause. They’d be happy to take your case if you wanted to fight it.” Enjolras always said stuff like this. Bossuet didn’t know if he actually believed in the inherent good of humanity, or if he was just very persuasive.

“No,” Bossuet said again, “I think I’m going. Not much choice in the matter, and I hear the war’s winding down anyway. I probably won’t even make it through basic training.”

Courfeyrac snorted, sitting back down and grabbing a beer bottle. “Yeah, as if Tricky Dick would ever let the war end. At this point, we’re gonna be fighting in Southeast Asia until our grandkids are getting drafted.”

Bossuet smiled, but he sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. “I don’t think it will be too bad, I’m just nervous.”

“Does Joly know?” Jehan asked, patting Bossuet on the back.

“He was the first one I told. He’s gonna stop by this evening and make me dinner. He mentioned shin splints, but they’ve been much harsher on medical deferments recently and I don’t want to push my luck.”

“That’s not the only option. If you want us to keep looking, we can talk to other folks who have avoided the draft, maybe some of the former SDS kids know of ways to avoid it?”

“No, I mean that’s great and all, but—“

“Hey,” Combeferre interrupts. “It’s Bossuet’s decision. We have to respect it. Just because some of us” his eyes narrow at Courfeyrac, “were able to avoid conscription, that doesn’t mean all of us can or want to.” He turns to Bossuet. “We support you, and we’ll help you with anything you need. You’re one of us.”

Bossuet nodded. He was reassured, but it didn’t stop the aching in his chest as he thought of life without his friends.

“You know what we need?” Courfeyrac asked, butting his head between Bossuet and Jehan. “A party. A proper going away party for our darling L’Aigle. Big, strong man, going off to war!” He laughed, and the mood in the bar lifted. “Tomorrow night, here at the Musain, and I’ll even get Eponine to give us all free booze!”

“Fuck you,” called a voice from the bar, and Bossuet turned his gaze to see Eponine, the weeknight bartender, rolling her eyes at them. “Bossuet, I’ll give you a free shot or two. The rest of these monkeys will continue to pay as long as they keep mucking up my bar.”

“It’s not even _your_ bar, Ep,” Courfeyrac called, “ _technically,_ Mabeuf pays the rent.”

“ _Technically_ , you’re a dick.” She retorted, sliding a bottle of beer down the bar to another patron. “Now clear out before I start shouting.”

With little grumbling, the group of friends began to disband. Enjolras and Combeferre back to grade papers and argue about politics, Courfeyrac and Feuilly to their little house down State Street, Jehan to his apartment across the square, probably to work on his poetry, and Bossuet making the long walk to his house, hoping Joly could give him words of comfort, reminding him that not everything was changing. Even if it felt like it.

 -+-+-+-

After an evening with Joly telling jokes and dancing along to Marvin Gaye on the radio in his tiny kitchen, Bossuet woke up the next morning feeling less like his world was falling apart around him. In the daylight, the draft summons looked less daunting, and the fear of a land mine blowing his foot off seemed like a distant possibility rather than a certain reality.

Bossuet was feeling so buoyant, in fact, that he walked back to the Musain with Joly and Feuilly grinning, excited to see his friends and maybe even Muischetta, the cute waitress who sometimes stopped by the Musain after work. Bossuet thought Muischetta might not be the type of girl to send ‘Dear John’ letters if he made it overseas, but maybe she’d kiss him if she knew he was headed off to war.

Even with the looming news of Bossuet’s draft, the atmosphere of the Musain was cheerful and rowdy, common for a Thursday night in a college town. Enjolras and Combeferre were holding court in one corner, Eponine was in a deep discussion with Jehan by the bar, and everyone else seemed to be in high spirits, flitting between the groups and laughing. Bossuet smiled as the group cheered when he walked in, but his eyes were drawn to the one corner of the room which seemed to be quiet, as if it were separated from the entire bar. Two young men, couldn’t be older than Bossuet himself, were sitting side by side at a small table, a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of them and two glasses. One man was taller, with broad shoulders, a dark complexion, and steely-grey eyes, and whispering in the ears of a shorter man, whose glass of whiskey shrouded his features. They both had buzzed, dark hair, military-regulation, but with the overgrowth that Bossuet knew meant they weren’t currently enlisted.

Bossuet was distracted from his thoughts by Enjolras bringing him a beer. Although his friends liked to joke that Enjolras was so devoted to his causes that he abandoned all social niceties, Bossuet knew he was making an effort tonight.

“Bossuet, glad you made it. Courfeyrac was starting to think he’d have to enlist himself just so we could have a going away party.” Enjolras grimaced. “Just so you know, he’s planning on reenacting the V-J Day in Times Square photo, so I’d watch out in case he attacks.”

“Thanks, Enjolras. Really.” Bossuet took a sip of his beer. “I know you don’t really agree with this, but it means a lot.”

Enjolras scoffed. “It’s your decision, I’m not going to take away your autonomy. The draft has already done that enough. Here you are, a young man with a bright future, and all of your sense of self and purpose has been derailed by politicians hoping to continue a war that was never ours to begin with!”

Bossuet took another sip of beer. He recognized the fire in Enjolras’ eyes, and knew it was time for a speech. From experience, he knew it was better not to interrupt, but to let the tirade take its course.

“This draft, this _war_ in general, is taking away chances from Americans across this country. It’s the government telling us that our lives don’t matter, our dreams don’t matter; all that matters is our young men being willing to die for a cause they don’t even believe in. The draft is _proof_ that Americans don’t believe in this war, or American imperialism in general. Bossuet,” Enjolras turned to Bossuet, as the noise in the bar was all but gone, “you are the victim here. You are proof of the injustices of this draft. How unfortunate is it,” he turned back to the crowd that has turned to look at them, “that a young man like Bossuet has to drop everything to go fight a rich man’s war!”

At that line, there was a snort from the back of the bar. Bossuet turned to see the shorter man from earlier making eye contact with Enjolras. His eyes were bright blue, and they were glaring.

“Excuse me, but how can a fancy university kid like you be so vocally hypocritical? After all, aren’t kids like you the sons of the rich men you’re talking about?”

Enjolras glared right back. “This isn’t about me, this is about the injustice of the draft in general. It’s about giving people the choice to live our their lives rather than be conscripted into a dirty war.”

“Oh, and what would you know about a dirty war, _Weatherman_. What would you know about the boys dying in a rice paddy halfway around the world? I bet you’ve never left this safe little town, staying inside your classroom and discussing Sun Tzu and Cicero without ever having _experienced_ real and complete terror!”

The man’s voice got louder and louder, until he was standing up, pointing at Enjolras and nearly shouting. “Honestly, tell me what kind of life have you lived? What kind of life gives you the right to pass judgment on the world around you? Who are you to judge the lives of men who are—who are suffering day in and day out, f-fighting—“

At that point, the man broke off, breathing heavily and hands shaking. His eyes glazed over, and his breaths began to come out in choked sobs, as he looked around wildly. The other man quickly stood up, grabbing his friend and pulling him close, wrapping his arms around the other’s shoulders and whispering something in his ear. Eventually, the shorter man stopped shaking and let his forehead fall on his friend’s shoulder before breaking out of the embrace and sitting down in his chair, head in his hands.

Combeferre is the first to speak. “Is everything okay, gents?”

“Sorry,” the taller man said quietly, with a sad smile on his face. “PTSD. It happens sometimes. We’re okay, though, sorry about that.”

Combeferre nodded, and eventually people start talking again. Enjolras left Bossuet’s side, stalking over to Courfeyrac no doubt to complain about his grand speech being interrupted, and was replaced by Joly who frowned at the two guys in the corner.

“Should we, I dunno, make sure he’s okay?”

“Do you think I’ll get PTSD, if I get sent over there?” Bossuet asked quietly, his mood ruined by this sudden onslaught of emotion, unable to return to the cheerful atmosphere of before.

Joly frowned, and shook his head. “Best not to think like that. You don’t even know what it’ll be like at training, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He turned back to the two gentlemen, and nodded at Combeferre across the room. “We should go introduce ourselves, though. Might be nice to apologize to them for Enjolras’, y’know, Enjolras-ness.”

Bossuet nodded and followed his friend to the back table. The taller man eyed them with interest, but nothing malicious. The shorter one was still hiding his face, another full glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Hi there,” Joly said gently as Combeferre walked up as well. “Sorry about, ah, all that earlier. Enjolras is—well he’s passionate about this stuff. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

The shorter man scoffed. “It’s _definitely_ not his fault, I’m the one who freaked the fuck out back there.”

“Hey,” his friend said sharply, a hand on his shoulder, “don’t talk like that, R. You know it’s not your fault. Stressful situations can trigger a response, and that’s all chemical.” He turned to Joly, Bossuet and Combeferre. “I’m Bahorel, by the way. This here’s Grantaire.”

Grantaire gave a sharp nod before returning to his glass, electing to drink rather than continue social niceties.

“Of course,” Combeferre said soothingly. “I’m Combeferre, this here’s Joly and Bossuet. We’re part of Les Amis, one of the activist groups at Kent State, and we’ve been doing a lot of work recently around the draft and other anti-war movements.” Always the politician, Combeferre paused. “Forgive me if it’s crass, but did you both serve?”

Bahorel nodded. “We just finished up our tours about, what was it now, a month ago? Haven’t had time to settle in, but we’ve had plenty of time to try out the new bars in town!” He chuckled, and Combeferre smiled.

“Welcome to the Musain, then. If either of you are interested, we end up meeting here more often than not. We’d love to get the perspective from some veterans of the war itself. As you pointed out, Grantaire, we don’t have much real-world experience with Vietnam.”

Grantaire didn’t look up from his glass, just kept frowning.

“Thanks for the offer,” said Bahorel. “We’ll definitely think about it. I’m trying to start law school soon with my G.I. money, but we’ve still got a pretty empty schedule.”

“You might have an empty schedule,” Grantaire interjected, “but I’ve got a date with my good friend Jim Beam, so I’ll see you around.” With that, he stood up and made his way over to the bar. Bossuet noticed he favored his left leg, and casually brought this up to Bahorel.

“Oh yeah. That’s R’s story to tell, sorry. But he was medically discharged, and I just happened to get out at the same time he did. We weren’t in the same company, but we knew each other from boot camp.” He turned to Combeferre. “Listen, your meetings sound interesting, and I’ll try to check them out, but I can’t make any promises about Grantaire. He’s had a rough time readjusting, and I’m not sure this would be the best place for him.”

 

+-+-+-+

 

_They were walking through the brush, not in any particular direction, just biding time. That was a lot of what they were doing these days. Moving from place to place, sleeping in foxholes and trying not to die. Grantaire would have called it relaxing, were it not for the ever-present fear of death with each step he took. And it wasn’t an uncommon fear. Everyone walked forward with a fear._

_Jackson walked with fear when he put his foot down on a rigged mortar round. It went off with a bang, and Grantaire turned over to see Jackson’s leg gone at the right knee. Jackson hopped around, breathing quickly and whispering “oh, Christ, oh Christ,” as if he was looking for his leg, as if he’d misplaced it._

_Grantaire’s mind was filled with images of Jackson’s stump leg, of the bone sticking out at the end, of the blood spurting out onto the wheatgrass below them, of Jackson’s face growing pale as he realized what happened. Jackson, transitioning from whispers to blood-curdling screams before he passed out as their CO rallied for a helicopter. Pieces of flesh blown to bits around them—_

Grantaire woke up with a start. His body was drenched with sweat, back aching from the soft mattress and leg aching from the bullet wound. It seemed like every night, he couldn’t get to sleep because of the strange surroundings, and then couldn’t stay asleep because of the goddamn nightmares.

He missed the ambient jungle noise, the buzzing of mosquitos and god knows what else, the rustling in the bushes that kept you on your toes. It was too quiet in his apartment, even with the occasional wail of a police siren or motorcycle roaring past.

No, that was wrong. He didn’t miss it. Those were the sounds that were followed by days of death, destruction and bloodshed. There was no comfort in the buzzing of fireflies and cicadas, not when Grantaire’s uniform still had blood spattered across the legs. No, he was glad the constant hum of the jungle was gone.

Figuring he needed to shake himself out of the memories, Grantaire rolled out of bed and made his way to the freezer, pulling out an ice cube to rest on the back of his neck. It’s something his VA-appointed therapist told him to do, on their first and only meeting when he got back to Kent. There were a lot of guys rolling back into the area, and they had a lot of problems. Grantaire was no different. He knew his therapist was stretched pretty thin, so he just asked her for a few basic tricks if his panic attacks got too bad, and he hadn’t seen her since. Not worth talking to some woman about the problems he already knew about. It’s not like she could erase the memories of the last year.

Grantaire’s tour was relatively short, by Vietnam standards. He was only in the thick of it for about ten months. But those ten months had changed him. Getting shot, and being sent home—even though he still had all his limbs—was a blessing of sorts. There was no ticker tape parade to welcome him home, and he wouldn’t have contacted his family even if they had reached out. He got off the plane, made his way back to Kent, and tried to ignore how his hometown didn’t feel like home. Finding out Bahorel was back in town at the same time had been even better.

Bahorel was the only worthwhile thing to come out of his draft summons. Sure, Grantaire was close with his Company, and he’d remember them until he died, but their memories were tainted. Jackson was a jokester, but Grantaire wouldn’t sleep for months without hearing his screams. Reynolds had a smile that was pure wit, and carried a photo of a lady who looked like a covergirl, but then he went and got his head shot in, and Grantaire still remembered the photo of his lady with blood spattered on it, lying in a rice paddy. Those men and their stories needed to be memorialized, but Grantaire wasn’t about to call up Reynolds’ sister and share anecdotes about how he never learned how to tie a tie, or what his red hair looked like mixed with blood.

So instead, Grantaire kept his memories of Bahorel. They’d met at boot camp, Bahorel being from some podunk town outside of Kent. He was brash and quick-witted, with a sharp glint in his eye that dared anyone to mess with him. He told Grantaire that, in another life, he would have tried for ROTC. Then he’d scoff and say, “that is, if I could ever find a war worth fighting.” Grantaire thought there’d never be a war worth fighting. After all, what was worth dying for?

Grantaire didn’t go to war to save lives, or to fight for some ideal. He went because he got a yellow card in the mail and he didn’t want to try anything. He went because Kent was a small town, and it wasn’t worth staying in. He didn’t know why he went to war, but then he got shot, and sent home, and now he had to somehow keep on living.

 

-+-+-+-

 

Grantaire ended up meeting Bahorel at the bar where he’d fought with the beautiful blonde man. Even before the war, Grantaire wasn’t in the habit of calling men beautiful, but this one deserved it. Of course, his was the beauty of an avenging angel, harsh and unyielding. It wasn’t the welcoming softness of some of the girls Grantaire had known before his tour, he was beautiful in the way gods were; meant to be venerated from afar. Their argument, brief as it was, had made Grantaire feel something other than dull regret for the first time since returning to Kent. Here was this man—this boy, really—who had passion and grit and a voice that could change hearts and minds, and he had directed it all at Grantaire. For one moment, Grantaire had been the center of his world. Until, of course, Grantaire’s brain had reasserted itself and thrown him into a panic attack. Not the best introduction, certainly.

Idealistic college students aside, the Musain was the kind of bar Grantaire thought he could grow to love. As he walked in the next afternoon, the group from the night before had taken up residence around a group of tables in the corner, with the blond standing in the middle. The rest of the Musain wasn’t as interesting. Stuffy and dark, with only one bartender, a girl with dark, curly hair and impressive biceps who Grantaire learned was named Eponine and who had dropped out of high school to pursue her dream of making Pink Squirrels for sorority girls. After a moment of silence, she rolled her eyes. “I’m not serious, dude,” she said in a droll voice, handing him a beer. “Please tell me the Viet-Cong didn’t take your sense of humor too.”

At that, Grantaire laughed, glad to have someone look at him with something other than disgust or pity. “You’re pretty neat, Eponine,” he said as Bahorel walked up to them, taking a place beside Grantaire. “Now, I need you to tell me about that group of kids who want to stick their draft cards up McNamara’s ass.”

Bahorel grinned. “I assume you have a special interest in the blond who wouldn’t shut up last night?”

“Of course not, I’m interested in all of them. Equality and all that.” Grantaire winked at Eponine. “But if you have any covert information on Weatherman there, he is an intriguing character.”

“Don’t you dare call him that,” Eponine groaned, “he’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Really,” Grantaire said, tilting his head, “he’s not just talk?”

“He’s the real deal, sweetheart,” Eponine drawled, putting on a southern accent. “Him and his friends, they call themselves Les Amis. Mostly they do general activist work, y’know race issues, civil rights, all that, but recently they’ve gotten really into this anti-war stuff. Probably because the SDS chapter at Kent was shut down and Enjolras wanted to fill the void. He and his sidekicks, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, even went to the Moratorium protest in D.C. last year, right before Courf got his draft papers. They get up to some crazy shit, let me tell you.”

“Wait, draft papers?” Bahorel interjected, “is he a fucking dodger?”

Eponine nodded, grinning slightly. “Him and Feuilly. Our token bad boys.”

“And Weatherman didn’t want to rough it with his friends, sticking it to the man like that?” Grantaire asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Nah, he and Combeferre have academic deferments for their masters degrees.”

Grantaire actually laughed out loud at that. With a look at Bahorel, and another smirk at Eponine, he chugged the rest of his beer before turning on his heel and marching back towards Enjolras and his deputy, Combeferre sat. As he approached the table, those around Enjolras fell silent, and Enjolras met Grantaire’s eyes with a steely gaze.

“Can I help you?” He asked, voice cold.

“Uh, not sure,” Grantaire said, laughing a bit. “I’m trying _really hard_ to take you seriously, but it’s just not working. Am I to believe that, not only are you a rich kid playing activist, but you’re not even at risk of getting drafted?”

Enjolras nodded slightly, his eyes narrowing. “If you’re referring to my academic deferment, then I’ll let you know that the work I’m able to accomplish with this group both on campus and in town is well worth my academic privilege.”

“Oh really, Mister ivory tower? Do you have any idea what you’re doing? You’re just raging against the machine while getting a useless degree with daddy’s money, while kids are _dying_ a world away. What do you hope to solve, if you’re not risking anything?”

“We _are_ risking things,” Enjolras spat, standing to face Grantaire head on. “Everyone who shows up to our meetings risks being branded as a traitor or anti-American. Yes, Combeferre and I have the means to attend graduate school, but not everyone in this group is so privileged. Bossuet is headed off to training soon, Jehan faced _blatant discrimination_ when he showed up with his draft summons, Courfeyrac and Feuilly are in danger, every day, risking their lives for the cause—“

“Yeah,” Grantaire interrupted, “but what about _you_. Leading a quasi-militant leftist group? As a rich prick with too much time on his hands? How is that revolutionary?”

At that point, Combeferre stepped in, and Grantaire looked down to see his hands were shaking.

“Grantaire, we get what you’re saying,” he said calmly. “Being able to organize, and to get the word out, that takes a certain status. But we need to use that status to remind people of the issues, and the politics Nixon and his cronies keep playing. As long as those poor boys keep getting sent overseas, it’s important for us to remind people of the injustices being committed in the name of freedom.”

Grantaire could feel bile rising in his throat, but he pushed it down, meeting Enjolras’ glare and ignoring Combeferre. “So you’re really a group of kids trying to save the world. Fucking incredible.”

“If you’re so cynical, you should leave.” Enjolras cut in. “After all, you seem to have nothing useful to contribute.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said knowingly. He turned to Grantaire. “Sorry, Grantaire. Tensions are a little high. Courf, he almost had a run-in with the fuzz this morning because of a broken headlight.”

He waved to the other side of the bar, and Grantaire saw Courfeyrac sitting with Jehan and a red-haired kid Grantaire didn’t recognize.

“It’s, uh, no problem,” Grantaire replied, his anger dissipating as he watched the group on the other side of the room, Courfeyrac laughing at something the redhead said. “I mean, isn’t he worried the cops might show up here?”

“We wouldn’t let him get caught,” Enjolras said fiercely. “We protect our friends here.”

“What Enjolras means to say,” Combeferre said kindly, “is that we have an agreement with the owner Mabeuf. He’s sympathetic to the cause, and we don’t have to worry about dodgers getting picked up here.”

Grantaire thought about making a snide retort, something about their ability to organize when some of them can’t even walk around town, but he decided it wasn’t worth it. It was clear Enjolras wasn’t his biggest fan, and even with Combeferre as mediator it wasn’t worth the tense conversation.

Enjolras had these dreams, this optimistic view of the world, thinking he could change it or protect the boys of the future from Grantaire’s fate. Grantaire couldn’t help but contradict him. It wasn’t as if he had anything to lose.

But instead of voicing these thoughts, Grantaire said a quick goodbye and made his way over to Courfeyrac, Jehan, and the as-yet-unnamed red-haired man who looked like the youngest of the group. Even Jehan’s feminine features had a certain age to them, a world-weariness that Grantaire knew well.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “You should hang out here all the time. Enjolras _never_ gets fired up like that. He knows all our arguments back and forth, it’s good to get some new blood in here!”

Grantaire chuckled. “You sure? I feel like if I keep this up, he’s gonna end up punching me in the face.”

“Enjolras would never punch anyone,” the other boy said, wide-eyed. “He’s more of the peaceful sort, right Courf?”

“Ah, young Marius, you’ve not been to a real protest yet, have you?” Courfeyrac clapped a hand on his—Marius’—shoulder, grinning broadly. “Feuilly always says it’s not a real Amis protest until Enjolras throws the first punch. So far it’s been a cop, a few counter-protesters, and one time, a police horse.”

“I was against punching the police horse!” Jehan argued, “It wasn’t _his_ fault he stepped on my foot with his hoof.”

“That was nothing compared to the first time I met him, though,” Marius muttered.

“Oh!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, pulling Grantaire closer. “Grantaire, you haven’t met Marius, have you? You’ve disrupted his place as the most dramatic introduction to Enjolras in our group.” Courfeyrac poked Marius in the shoulder. “Tell him, Marius.”

“Well, it wasn’t that bad, I don’t think?” He looked down at the table, and Grantaire saw a blush growing. “I mean, Courfeyrac invited me to one of their meetings because we’re roommates, and I just mentioned to Enjolras how cool I thought what they were doing was, and that I’d seen some of the news reports and it was getting really bad over there. And then—“

“And _then_ ,” Courfeyrac interrupted, laughing between words, “and then he said ‘but it’s worth it to stop the spread of communism’ and Enjolras _lost it_! His face went all red, and Combeferre had to drag him from the room to get him to calm down. It was amazing!”

“I didn’t know that was a bad thing to say!” Marius defended himself as Grantaire joined in laughing with Jehan and Courfeyrac. “I mean, but that wasn’t the worst part.”

“Oh right,” Jehan interjected. “The worst part was when Enjolras finally apologized to you, and you introduced yourself as Marius _Pontmercy_.”

“Wait,” Grantaire paused, eyes widening. “Pontmercy, as in Senator Pontmercy.”

“My grandfather,” Marius replied, blush even deeper.

Grantaire was floored that Marius was still around. After both conversations he’d had with Enjolras, he couldn’t imagine their group being okay with the relative of one of the strongest pro-war senators hanging around. Pontmercy’s speeches were known for being almost pure propaganda, and even Grantaire, who didn’t care much about politics, couldn’t stand the man. “And how does he feel about you hanging out with this riff-raff?”

“He doesn’t know, of course. I don’t even tell my parents about the Amis.”

“Probably for the best,” Courfeyrac drawls. “Enjolras’ next goal is to tackle sodomy laws and homosexual rights. I doubt that would appeal to Mr. and Mrs. Pontmercy!”

Jehan chuckled. “I doubt that will appeal to most of the country. Its cool Enjolras wants to talk about it, though, I mean the SDS kids were never very supportive of those causes. Thought it would distract from the coming class war.” He smiled, but Grantaire noticed the shrug in his shoulders and how his fingers trembled.

“Say, Jehan, what’s your story? Not to pry, but Enjolras mentioned something about discrimination during his little rant earlier. Did you, uh, did something happen?”

Courfeyrac’s cheerful face turned dark, and even Marius looked angry.

“It was nothing—“ Jehan began, only to be interrupted by Courfeyrac.

“It wasn’t _nothing_ ,” he said furiously. “It was _blatant homophobia_. And not even that. If you hadn’t got out of there quick, they might have hurt you!”

Grantaire gaped. “Wait, you got hurt?”

“Almost,” Jehan clarified. “I, uh, got my draft summons last year. Thought it would be an interesting protest to show up in a skirt. Enjolras was very on board, and Eponine let me borrow a nice outfit, very understated, and I showed up to the base like that. The, uh, sergeant who met me wasn’t very impressed, and after a few questions they told me my asthma disqualified me from service, and my draft summons must’ve been a mistake.”

He paused and took a sip of the drink in front of him. “I’d heard of men getting turned away for homosexuality, but I thought they stopped doing that since this most recent round of drafts. Turns out, showing up in a skirt changes their mind pretty quick. The sergeant made a few comments, and, well, he—“

“He pushed Jehan, and probably would’ve done more if Jehan hadn’t high-tailed it out of there.” Courfeyrac said, putting his arm around Jehan. “It’s just, it’s ridiculous, that’s what it is. I mean, how can they expect to win a war if they keep turning men away for bullshit reasons?”

“Courf,” Jehan said, smiling, “you know I didn’t want to go. I kind of expected that reaction.”

“Still, it’s outrageous. You agree, don’t you?” Courfeyrac turned to Grantaire, as if judging his reaction.

Grantaire was frozen. Of course the militant students he’d met were homosexual activists as well. Grantaire had spent most of his life, the war included, ignoring whatever persistent feelings he’d felt towards other men. There had been one boy, in grade school, but Grantaire’s fear prevented them from so much as holding hands, just a few lingering glances here and there. He wasn’t sure what to do, now that he was face to face with a group of gay folks in the middle of Ohio.

“Somehow I imagine gay men in our military isn’t the worst problem we’ve got to deal with. Y’know, I’m less concerned about what men prefer in bed when I’m faced with a mortar shell at my feet.” Grantaire chuckled at the end; to make sure Jehan knew he was joking. “Sorry you had to go through that, though. Sounds like hell.”

Jehan smiled, and Courfeyrac grabbed Grantaire’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. “Then it’s official! You’re part of Les Amis now. We have to make sure any new recruits are comfortable around us homosexuals, as we’ve got a fair number in our group.”

“Yourself included?” Grantaire asked.

Courfeyrac winked. “You interested?”

Grantaire laughed it off, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, you’re not my type.”

“But you _have_ a type?” Jehan pressed, and Grantaire knew he’d backed himself into a corner.

“Honestly, I haven’t had much time for relationships recently. Hard to go for milkshakes in the middle of Quảng Ngãi.”

“We’ll now you’re in a college town. There’s got to be someone who catches your fancy?” Courfeyrac wiggled his eyebrows.

“No one yet, but I’ll let you know and we can gossip like schoolgirls. In the meantime, can I get you another round?”

The boys cheered, and Grantaire turned back to the bar, heartbeat slowing down. Alcohol was always a way to distract young men, and these were no different. It didn’t matter if they were blatantly up front about their sexualities, everyone needed another beer. As he put in the order with Eponine, Grantaire turned towards where Enjolras was sitting with Combeferre and Joly. He wondered what Enjolras had to say about Jehan’s story. Of course, he’d probably be suitably outraged, and if he was making sodomy laws his next cause, Grantaire guessed he was comfortable with homosexuality in his little group. But as for his personal preferences, Grantaire didn’t even consider the possibility. After all, it wasn’t as if he was going to out himself to this group of college students any time soon. It wouldn’t do to consider “what ifs.”

Putting on a smile, Grantaire turned back to Courfeyrac, Jehan and Marius, determined to steer the conversation towards more comfortable ground. He could do this. He could make friends, joke about whatever college kids joked about, and ignore the fact that he kept seeing Reynolds in the corner of his eye, with Marius’ red hair and Courfeyrac’s laugh, getting his head shot in.

 

-+-+-+-

Grantaire made it through three meet ups with the Amis before politics got involved. According to Eponine, he should have considered himself lucky that it took this long for Enjolras to come up with a new idea.

“He got so distracted by being a good friend to Bossuet, I think he forgot to change the world for a week,” she joked with him as they walked towards the Musain. Aside from Bahorel, Grantaire found he enjoyed hanging out with Eponine most. Everyone else, even Marius, seemed to take Enjolras at face value; Eponine was the only person in their little group who was able to criticize the fearless leader. Also, she made incredible sidecars.

“Whatever they’re planning, you shouldn’t get involved,” Eponine said seriously, as they pushed open the doors into the Musain. “Enjolras tends to forget other things exist in life outside of his little group. You deserve some normalcy in this town.” She glanced over where the Amis were gathering. “Well, as normal as it can get when this entire bar is crawling with idealistic co-eds.”

“Co-eds?” Grantaire scoffed. “You really think—“ he noticed Courfeyrac drinking the brightest pink cosmopolitan he’d ever seen. “I guess you have a point. If they make me pledge Alpha Beta Chi, I might just run back to Vietnam.”

Eponine snorted and took her place behind the bar. “Go see what they’re up to. Bahorel should be here soon, and I’ll let him know where you are. I assume you want him for backup, in case Enjolras starts throwing shit?”

“I can handle myself, thank you very much,” Grantaire retorted, turning his back to her. He was greeted by cheers from Courfeyrac and Jehan, genuine smiles from Feuilly and Joly, and a slight nod from Combeferre. Enjolras was absorbed in a stack of papers in front of him, and didn’t acknowledge Grantaire.

Instead of mentioning this, Grantaire took a seat next to Jehan, the steadiest presence in the Amis by far. Even if he was a bit too flower child for Grantaire, he got the idea that nothing would faze Jehan, not even a panic attack. (Not that Grantaire was expecting one; it was just to be safe).

“Glad you showed up,” Jehan said softly. “Is Bahorel coming?”

“Uh, yeah, I think he’s on his way over? Why?” Grantaire asked.

“Well, he’s going to law school, right?”

“He’s been looking at a few schools. Not sure when he’s submitting applications.”

“Oh great! Enjolras’ next project involves legal stuff, and he wanted Bahorel’s opinion.” Jehan smiled at Grantaire, as if this was the best news he’d heard all week.

“Did someone mention my name?” The man in question called out, pulling up a chair next to Grantaire. “You weren’t spilling state secrets, R, now, were you?”

Grantaire laughed. “What’s there to spill? If anyone knows how fucked up it is over there, it’s these kids. Not much to cover up, like whatever NBC is doing these days.”

Bahorel grinned and clinked his glass against Grantaire’s and Jehan’s in greeting. “Did I hear you say something about the legal system, Jehan?” He asked.

“Yes! I mean—“

At that moment, Enjolras cleared his throat from across the bar, and Jehan fell silent. All eyes turned to face him, even the patrons who weren’t involved with Les Amis keeping their conversations to a minimum. Grantaire was slightly distracted by the way the light hit Enjolras’ hair, even as it was shrouded in a cigarette-smoke haze. It made it all the more ethereal, so it’s no wonder Grantaire was slightly distracted for the beginning of what was sure to be a rousing and uncompromising speech.

“—And as such, we want to make sure the rights of draft dodgers are protected. These are our friends, our neighbors; it could even be you one day. We’re going to set up a legal clinic for these folks on and around campus. Hopefully, with the resources we have, we can reach a good number of individuals. I’ve been reading up on some of the work David Harris has been doing out in California, and it seems that might be a good place to start. Of course, I have a few ideas myself, but I’m eager to hear your input.” With a nod, he sat down, and the room is silent before suggestions started popping up.

“We could start with mailing draft cards back to the government, or refusing to show up if people get draft cards in the mail,” Courfeyrac offered first, to the murmur of assent around the room.

“That might be too risky for an opening move,” Combeferre cautions, “but the energy is good. Maybe a publicity campaign would be a good place to begin? Getting people to understand how common draft dodging is?”

“Hey, Bahorel, you’re going to law school, right?” Feuilly chimes in, winking at the man in question. “Want to talk it up around the potential circuit court judges in tort law?”

“Once a school accepts me, the first thing I’ll do is light the revolutionary fire under their ass,” Bahorel quips in return, earning a cheer from Courfeyrac.

Grantaire tunes them out after a minute, focusing on the fire in Enjolras’ eyes that was soon mirrored all around him. Even Bahorel, who had come back as tired and world-weary as Grantaire, seemed to have been infected by this group of kids who believed they could change the world. Grantaire wished, more than anything in the world, that he too could feel that fire in his soul. That he could see their movement as something more than a pointless exercise in narcissism. That something good could exist in the world.

Bahorel guffawing next to him pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. “You really think that’ll work, Courf?” He asked, a wide smile on his face. Grantaire hadn’t seen a smile like that since before they went overseas.

“What’d I miss?” Grantaire whispered to Bahorel once the attention was directed back towards Enjolras.

“Ah, nothing,” Bahorel said distractedly. “Courf wanted to draw up a bunch of fake draft cards, like, thousands of them, and mail them to the county board. He thinks it would be a statement or something.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because that’s going to stop the war. McNamara is gonna be hanging around _our_ county courthouse and he’s gonna see all the draft cards and go, ‘oh hey, maybe this war isn’t a good idea.’ And Enjolras’ll get the Medal of Freedom or some shit. Let me know when that happens.”

Apparently, his voice had gotten louder and the room quieted down, and by the end of his sentence, all eyes were on Grantaire. Including Enjolras’.

“Do you really believe that? Small acts of resistance, be it a legal clinic or a public statement, they matter. We won’t change the world overnight.”

“But you think you can change it at all?” Grantaire retorted. “Is it worth going to prison to fight a piece of paper and a generation of old white men who have consolidated power? I doubt you’re gonna come up with a new world order before exam season.”

Enjolras’ eyes burned like fire, and Grantaire is almost nervous for his response. Almost. “As long as there’s a chance, even a glimmer of hope, we need to keep fighting.” He said with the upmost passion.

Grantaire wished he felt that kind of passion about anything anymore.

“Whatever you say, Weatherman.” He took a shot of vodka, and tuned out the rest of the evening before stumbling home alone, head whirling with imaged of blonde hair and bullets raining down around him.

 

-+-+-+-

Of all of the Amis, Grantaire saw Feuilly and Courfeyrac most often. Part of it was because Bahorel seemed to have taken to Feuilly quickly, and Grantaire always felt better around Bahorel, but also they seem to have the best weed hookup in the city. Bahorel said marijuana helped with the PTSD, but Grantaire thought he just liked the idea of hanging out with Feuilly all day in his little house at the edge of town.

Compared to the Musain, Grantaire felt like he could finally breathe when he stepped into Feuilly and Courfeyrac’s house. It was small, and the signs that two twenty-something men lived there were overpowering, but at least it wasn’t filled with students and pitying looks. Courfeyrac never so much as made a comment to Grantaire about the war; he only brought it up when Grantaire spoke first. Feuilly seemed like Bahorel, keeping his stories close to his chest, rarely offering new information. Grantaire loved it.

The four of them were sitting in the living room, a ragged couch and two plastic chairs the only seating available, and passing a joint between them. It was mostly silent, aside from the occasional giggle out of Courfeyrac or a murmured sentence from Bahorel about “that time in boot camp when Jacobs got ahold of a joint from some townies and they proceeded to get completely baked before running ten miles” to which Grantaire would make some quip about a proper breakfast. It was the most comfortable Grantaire had felt in weeks.

That was, until Bahorel decided to _get real_.

“Feuilly,” he whispered, poking the man in question. “Feuilly, my friend, you and Courfeyrac have the _best house_ in town. But why didn’t you go to college or something? You’re so _smart_.”

Grantaire thought he sounded like a simpering schoolgirl.

“You’re asking why I got drafted,” Feuilly asked, a lilt of laughter in his voice. “It’s called the lottery of life, my friend. Orphaned, poor, black, I had all the signs of a prime draftee. Wasn’t surprising at all when I got my summons. In fact, I was kind of waiting for it.” He takes another hit of the joint. “I knew I wouldn’t have lasted a day in the army, so I quit. Just nicked a pickup from my neighbor and started driving. Only made it as far as Kent before my truck broke down, and Courf was around at the gas station doin’ odd jobs, and he told me there was a safe place for dodgers here.”

Grantaire sat in awe. Life had put Feuilly through the ringer, and here he was, braver than Grantaire even by taking his future in his own hands. Feuilly had gotten the call from the government same as Grantaire, same as Bahorel and a hundred thousand other boys, and he’d given them the finger. No wonder Enjolras thought dodging was the right thing to do. No wonder Bahorel was half in love with Feuilly.

“What about Bossuet,” Grantaire buts in, “he joined up, right? We met him the first night here.”

Courfeyrac nodded, taking the last drag and exhaling smoke into the hazy living room. “Yeah, we talked to him about joining our merry band of renegades out here in the sticks, but Bossuet was too worried about getting caught. He’s had some bad luck and is afraid its terminal or something.”

“And Enjolras is okay with that? One of his acolytes joining up instead of stickin’ it to the man?” Grantaire muttered, apparently unable to give into the relaxed atmosphere.

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed a bit, and he pressed a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder. “Listen, Enjolras isn’t as bad as you think. I know y’all got off on the wrong foot—and it was extremely entertaining, mind you—but he really cares about us. He’s got that idealistic swagger, but he wouldn’t ask us to do something unless we were one hundred percent comfortable. Bossuet wasn’t comfortable dodging, and Enjolras didn’t begrudge him. He’s not as heartless as you presuppose.”

Grantaire wanted to argue, wanted to bring up arguments he’d been bringing up for a week now, but some part of him was suddenly exhausted. It might’ve been the weed, but it just didn’t seem worth it to continue an argument. What was cynicism worth if it would only dim Courfeyrac’s smile, make Feuilly fidget in his seat, and make Bahorel give him that look that meant they were going to have a heart to heart later on.

The conversation quickly turned away from personal stories, for which Grantaire was grateful, towards safer topics of which girls at the soda shop were the cutest, how Feuilly was going to fix up his truck with a new muffler soon, and what kind of law Bahorel wanted to practice (Courfeyrac was all in favor of figuring out how to be a lawyer on the moon).

“What kind of crime exists on the _moon_ , Courf?” Bahorel asked, laughing.

Courfeyrac took a defensive tone. “Well, I’ve never _been_ , have I Bahorel? Let me know when you get there!”

“Territorial disputes between the cosmonauts and aliens?” Feuilly added.

“Some poor sap was crushed to death when the Apollo module landed on the surface?” Grantaire cajoled.

“Just you wait!” Courfeyrac argued, “in twenty years, there’s going to be _civilization_ on the moon, and they’re gonna need lawyers, right? You’ll see!”

The rest of them just laughed, pelting him with pillows.

 

-+-+-+-

Grantaire’s life, punctuated by brief moments of excitement with the Amis, was mostly a dull affair. His most important duties were trying to show up to physical therapy mandated by the VA, trying to get a shit job somewhere in town, and keeping his apartment semi-habitable. Most of his days, though, were spent sleeping, getting woken by nightmares, and sitting dead-eyed in his apartment as he poured another glass of whiskey, trying to dull his senses to at least get ninety minutes of solid rest.

Sometimes, he tried to paint. It felt like his fingers had forgotten how to make things that were beautiful, but he tried. He had dabbled in sketches and painting before the war, drawing in a neoclassicist style and articulating beauty on the canvas. Now, it was mostly angry, abstract art which found it’s way from his paintbrush. Harsh colors, dramatic lines, and no meaning beyond the occasional set of complementary colors. He wished he could move beyond it, but the goal was to stay alive, not to become a studio artist. Once he finished a canvas, he would look at it for a few moments, trying to articulate something beyond anger and pain and regret, before stowing it in the back of his linen closet. No one needed to see that; not even Bahorel knew he painted, and he wasn’t about to proclaim it to the world.

Even with his packed schedule, cycling through episodes of regret and self-loathing, Grantaire made time for Bahorel and, by extent, the Amis. Grantaire spent three days telling Bahorel he wouldn’t get caught at that silly group’s next meeting, going on a prolonged rant about the better things he cold have done with his time, all while Bahorel said nothing and the light danced in his eyes. Of course, Grantaire was at the Musain the next night, a bottle of beer in front of him, cursing out whatever god made these students so hard to resist.

Everyone filed into the bar and took their seats, Eponine manning the bar as usual, and Enjolras’ was about to begin what was sure to be a rousing speech when Marius burst through the door, nearly dragging a woman in behind him.

“Sorry I’m late!” He called, gasping for breath and drawing everyone’s attention to him. “I wanted to introduce you all to Cosette, who I’m hoping will join our group.”

Grantaire looked at the girl in tow, who was short and Asian with a soft smile and sharp eyes. Grantaire thought she looked like a sweet girl, particularly if she was willing to put up with Marius. He looked around the room, and saw Eponine staring at Cosette with intensity. When Grantaire caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, Eponine just blushed and turned away, moving to dry a glass that was already completely dry. Grantaire was intrigued; it took quite a bit to get the best of Eponine, and apparently this new girl was something else.

“So,” Marius continued, “This is Cosette, like I said, and she’s the adopted daughter of Senator Valjean—“

“Marius,” Cosette interrupted, her voice sharp, “I _do_ speak English, and I _can_ tell my own story, you know.”

Grantaire liked her even more, and he whistled in approval as Marius blushed. Cosette turned to look at him and winked before continuing to speak to the group at large.

“Yes, I’m Senator Valjean’s daughter. Well—adopted daughter. I was born in Korea and my mom died a few years after I was born. Anyways, since my dad was some American serviceman who left my mom after she got pregnant, I tried to get immigration papers to come here, but apparently a lot of kids like me were trying to get naturalized citizen status and it was taking a while. By some coincident, Papa—er, the Senator—was in Seoul on a PR trip and visited my orphanage when he decided to adopt me. And since I technically had American citizenship, he wanted to make a point about a bill he was trying to pass—“

“The Immigration Act of 1952,” Enjolras interrupted, as he was wont to do when policy matters came up.

Cosette nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. Anyways, he brought me over here, and I’ve been living in Ohio ever since, although I’m now doing literature at Kent. That’s where I met Marius.”

The boy in question raised his hand and smiled broadly.

“Well, Cosette,” Enjolras said, taking his place as leader, “welcome to the group. Your father has always been sympathetic to our aims, albeit with a more mainstream lean.”

“I understand my father can be rather traditional,” Cosette agrees, “but I want you to know I am much more radical than he, and I fully support the work of the Amis—at least what Marius has told me.”

Enjolras smiled at that, and gestured to the room. “Then you are as welcome as any of us. Now, to get back to business…”

Grantaire turned towards where Cosette and Marius had taken their seats, and made his way over to the two of them.

“Cosette, I’ve got to say, I’m glad you stood up to Pontmercy here. I hear he’s a real bastard,” Grantaire said by way of introduction, a twinkle in his eye to remind Cosette it was all in jest.

Her laughter rang out like bells. “Marius? This sweetheart? He just gets overzealous at times. He’s rather wonderful.”

Marius sat between them, face still red. And Grantaire gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“I’m Grantaire,” he mentions, holding out a hand to Cosette. “The resident cynic around these parts. Can I buy you a drink?”

When she nodded and took his hand, Grantaire led her over to where Eponine was standing, muttering “play it cool” to her under his breath.

“Eponine,” he said louder, “I’d like you to make Cosette the best drink of your short career. She’ll need something strong to withstand Enjolras’ rants today.”

Eponine blushed slightly, but turned to lock eyes with Cosette. “What’ll you take, Cosette?” she asked, voice an octave deeper than normal.

Cosette was unfazed, giving Eponine a sweet smile. “What would you make for me?”

With a grin, Eponine turned away and began to throw together a drink. While they waited, Cosette turned with wide eyes to Grantaire, as if to ask what was going on. He just laughed silently, motioning for her to wait, and hoped things would work out as they seemed.

Just then, Eponine turned back with a martini glass filled with amber liquid. “You seem like a classy girl, so I went for a classic.” She pushed the glass towards Cosette, who cautiously took a sip before wordlessly exclaiming as her eyes lit up.

“How did you know? I absolutely _adore_ sidecars!”

“Lucky guess, I suppose,” Eponine responded, biting her lip.

Grantaire turned away, letting them flirt in peace. While he might not be comfortable with his own theoretical homosexuality, he knew enough to see it in others, and Eponine hadn’t shown any signs of interest in any of the Amis men, even with Courfeyrac practically throwing himself at her. Her eyes when Cosette walked in, however, were something Grantaire had never seen. It was as if she had been struck by lightning, or was seeing the sunrise for the first time. Grantaire had never been one for overly dramatic metaphors, but the way Cosette and Eponine were gazing at each other across the bar, discussing the ratios of Contrineau to cognac in a sidecar and where a girl could get a bottle of the best cognac this side of the Mississippi—right here at Musain, thank you very much—Grantaire could see something special between them. It was the soft, new attraction he hadn’t seen since grade school, but Grantaire figured they needed some happiness in this room. If Enjolras’ next scheme were to fail—which it most certainly was—at least these two would be smiling through the downfall.

As Grantaire reached behind the bar to grab himself another beer, as he doubted Eponine could be bothered to get one herself, he noticed Enjolras making his way towards the two girls. Any business Enjolras brought up would surely distract Eponine and Cosette from what was going to be a blossoming romance, so Grantaire decided to head him off before he could distract them with the cause.

“Hey, Weatherman, where do you think you’re going?” He asked sharply.

“Excuse me, Grantaire, I just need to ask Cosette for a few details regarding her father’s voting records. We have the most recent data, of course, but I wanted to confirm a few things with her.”

Grantaire snorted. True love couldn’t be interrupted for voting records. He reached out and grabbed Enjolras’ sleeve, causing the other man to give him a sharp look.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He bit out, wrenching his arm from Grantaire’s hand.

“Listen, you _cannot_ interrupt Eponine’s first chance at romance in god knows how long. I don’t care what legislation you need to talk about, it is definitely not the priority here.”

Enjolras stopped walking, which was a plus, but he also turned his full attention onto Grantaire, which felt like being under a microscope.

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“I _mean,_ ” Grantaire continued, ignoring the nerves fluttering around his stomach, “Eponine is trying to get laid, and I’m not going to let you be a buzzkill.”

“Wait, Eponine and Cosette?” Enjolras’ steely glare had transformed into something closer to confusion, which looked out of place on his beautiful face. “Are they…do you even know if Cosette is—“

“A lesbian?” Grantaire bit out, unable to deal with this newly nervous Enjolras. Maybe he was wrong to assume that just because Enjolras wanted to deal with sodomy laws that he was comfortable around homosexuality. Maybe, faced with the possibility of two women in his bar flirting, he’d realized that it did make him uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” Grantaire continued, “they’re lesbians, Enjolras. At least, I think so. There’s definitely something happening. Do you have a problem with that? If there’s something about same sex relationships which freaks you out, I’d stay away from the bar for the next hour or so.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure why he was getting so defensive, but something about the wary look in Enjolras’ eye, combined with his interest in making sure Eponine and Cosette could have a moment of happiness made him more antagonistic than usual. He gears up to continue his rant, when Enjolras opens his mouth.

“Of course I don’t have a problem with lesbians. Jehan and Courfeyrac are bisexual, and I myself am gay. Why would you assume I had a problem with it?”

Grantaire was at a loss for words. “Oh.”

“Um, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to speak with Combeferre. Give my best to Eponine and Cosette.” With a nod, he awkwardly left Grantaire, moving quickly over to Combeferre where the two put their heads together.

Grantaire exhaled, feeling caught off-guard by everything that had just happened. Apparently, Enjolras had just come out to him, and Grantaire had protected a newly blossoming relationship, and even though neither of those events were huge, they _felt_ huge to Grantaire. Before he could delve deeper into his thoughts, Courfeyrac slid up to him, resting his back against the bar.

“So,” Courfeyrac whispered in his ear, “I hear you’re the new poet among these parts? Defending romance, protecting the young lesbians from scary politicians?”

Grantaire groaned. “How much did you hear?”

Courfeyrac just smiled. “Enough to know you do have a heart below that cold exterior!” He poked at Grantaire’s chest. “You _do_ care. I feel like I’m watching George Bailey learn to love. This is beautiful!”

“What can I say,” Grantaire smiled, “I guess someone should get a little happiness in this shit world.”

Courfeyrac coos, and keeps poking Grantaire until he’s laughing as well. After a beat, Courfeyrac’s voice grows somber.

“Hey, speaking of, I’m not sure if this is too much assumption, but was it rough being, er, homosexual in the army?”

“You figured that out?” Grantaire laughed awkwardly, wishing the ground would swallow him up.

“I mean, coming from someone well-acquainted with the gay lifestyle, you were defending same sex relationships pretty staunchly up there,” Courfeyrac said, voice soft. “You know we wouldn’t care. Enjolras told you that nearly half of us are some kind of homosexual. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

Grantaire nodded, knowing Courfeyrac was only trying to be kind. “I mean, I didn’t really think about it during my tour, y’know? We had bigger things to worry about, and, I mean of all my memories from Vietnam, the crude remarks about gay men aren’t the worst thing to come to mind.”

Courfeyrac closed his eyes, and just rested his head on Grantaire’s shoulders. The angle was awkward, as Courfeyrac was slightly taller than him, but Grantaire felt comforted by the contact. Coming back, he’d avoided personal contact as much as possible, not wanting to trigger any kind of reaction. But with Courfeyrac, with his cheerful attitude and empathetic worldview, Grantaire was put at ease.

The two stood at the bar, leaning on each other for warmth, and watched the group around them. Enjolras and Combeferre were talking with Joly and Jehan, probably about the legal clinic, and Feuilly and Bahorel in a drinking competition with Cosette and Eponine, each team more interested in themselves than the game. For a moment, a snapshot in time, Grantaire felt like there was no war going on outside, no fighting and death and anger, just a group of friends enjoying each other’s company.

“You know,” Courfeyrac said, breaking the silence, “I am really glad you’re here, and Enjolras is too. Someone needs to keep him in check; because he’ll get so caught up in idealism that one day he’s just gonna drift off into space. Some needs to keep him grounded.”

“I’m really not the best person to talk to about reality,” Grantaire scoffed, his voice light but fear coloring his tone. “I mean, I can barely keep my mind from falling apart for more than three hours.”

Courfeyrac gave him a knowing look. “Well, maybe you can keep each other together.”

Grantaire just laughed, avoiding the swirling thoughts and fears running through his head. He smiled and kept on drinking trying not to think about hypotheticals that never had a chance of existing.

 

+-+-+-

 

The legal clinic Enjolras had been dreaming up moved along quickly, and Grantaire watched the action from his table in the back of the Musain. One day, they were discussing where they could hold the first meeting, and Cosette said she knew a professor in the literature department who would let them use her classroom. The next thing Grantaire knew, posters were going up around town, Enjolras and Combeferre were trying to talk the student newspaper into publishing an article on it, and the organization was in full swing. Grantaire didn’t follow much of it. After all, he wasn’t part of their little club and he didn’t particularly want to help contact law offices in town to get them to offer free legal advice to college students.

But he hung around, spending time with Bahorel until he got pulled into the planning by Feuilly, and then whoever would spare a minute to have a beer with him and talk about anything but politics. He was pulled into a poetry discussion with Jehan who recommended Grantaire read some A. E. Housman, he argued with Courfeyrac about why Guinness was _not_ the best stout, and had Grantaire ever even _tried_ Mackeson’s? He even had a civil conversation with Enjolras, even if Combeferre was there as mediator, about art’s place in protest and activism. Enjolras had a surprised look on his face when Grantaire mentioned his art, but luckily he didn’t pry. He just smiled at this knowledge and was eventually distracted by a question from Cosette about what time they needed the classroom, but he paused to give a nod to Grantaire in reply before leaving the table.

“So you really think this is going to work?” Grantaire asked Combeferre after Enjolras left.

“Enjolras is confident we’ll have enough legal help, and hopefully people will show up. Of course, we can’t force anyone to attend, but we’ve spent time explaining that no cops will be there, and it will be a safe place for people to get legal help who don’t want to go to war.”

“I admire the effort, really I do, but I just can’t imagine people being brave enough to out themselves as draft dodgers. It’s not like we’re in the Bay Area; Ohio farmlands aren’t as amicable to political protest.” Grantaire grimaced and took a sip of his beer.

Combeferre just gave Grantaire a gentle smile. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.” He got up to return to his work.

“Maybe I will be,” Grantaire responded, watching as Combeferre sat down next to Enjolras, a stack of documents in front of him. These kids had so much hope, and being led by Enjolras and Combeferre they really did believe that the town would be with them, and that this clinic would make a difference.

Of course, Grantaire was proven right. He wished he wasn’t.

It ended up being a rainy Tuesday, and Grantaire was sat at the bar chatting with Eponine when Enjolras and Combeferre came bursting through the doors to the Musain. Combeferre’s face was tight, and his fists balled up at his side, but Enjolras was glowering by comparison. His blonde hair was wild around his face, and had he been born with fairer skin Grantaire was sure it would have been bright red. He stalked back to their corner, sitting down in a chair with a huff as Combeferre made his way to the bar.

“Hey Grantaire, Eponine,” Combeferre said, running a hand through his hair. “Ep, can I get two whiskies and cokes? Doubles, please.”

“Wow, not playing around, are you?” Eponine commented, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels behind her. “What’s up with the chief today?”

Combeferre frowned, looking back over at Enjolras who was glaring at the table as if it had personally offended him. “We had the legal clinic today, and basically no one showed up. I mean, we’d gotten six legal clerks to come by, Bahorel and Courfeyrac stopped by to help, and we just sat in the classroom for three hours with not a soul in sight. It was…disheartening to say the least.”

Grantaire just took a drink of his beer.

“So that’s the end of the clinic?” Eponine asked, setting the two drinks in front of Combeferre.

“Of course not,” Combeferre responded, “it’s just a minor setback. I think it was kind of a blow to Enj, though. He was really hoping for a big turnout.” He turned to Grantaire. “Do you want to come join us? Might be useful to get Enjolras’ mind off the clinic.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You think I would make him feel better? We don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to conversations. What is it, like one full civil conversation we’ve had so far?”

“Oh come on, R, it hasn’t all been barbs and arguing,” Eponine interjected. “You’re both grown ups, and you _can_ speak to each other without raising your voices.”

Grantaire scoffed, but stood up when Combeferre raised his eyebrow. “Fine, let’s see how long it takes this time. Ep, I’m putting money on him kicking me out in maybe ten minutes.”

“I believe in you, R, I’d give you at least twenty.”

Giving her the finger, Grantaire followed Combeferre over to the small table, where he takes a seat across from Enjolras.

“Mind if I join?” He asked, and Enjolras lifts his head to meet his eyes.

“Of course not. I may not be the best company today, mind you.” He thanked Combeferre for the drink and took a long sip.

“Yeah, Combeferre told me. I’d say sorry, but we both know I don’t mean it.”

Enjolras just pursed his lips and stayed silent. Apparently he was too angry to even take the bait.

“So Grantaire,” Combeferre attempted, “you’re working at the gas station with Courfeyrac, right?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah, it’s not much, but it gets me out of bed in the morning which is useful.”

“Nice.”

Silence fell again, and Grantaire took another drink.

“So,” Combeferre began again after a few minutes, “what are—“

“Did you really think we’d fail?” Enjolras interjected, his eyes back on Grantaire. “Did you really expect us to fail like this?”

Grantaire bit his lip. He really didn’t want to start an argument, but the snarl of cynicism was sitting on his tongue. “I mean, of course no one showed up. No offense, but did you really think draft dodgers were gonna show up to go over their options of legal recourse? They’re all hiding like Courf and Feuilly. None of them are going to come down to a college campus so some idealistic twits can tell them how to avoid jail time.”

It’s nothing different from what Grantaire had been saying for the past few weeks, but something about Enjolras must have been changed, because the glare he got was unlike the exhausted roll of his eyes from arguments past. This was pure, undiluted anger, directed at Grantaire.

“Well at least I’m trying to _help_ , which is more than can be said for you.” Enjolras snapped, his fingers tightening around the glass.

“Fat lot of good your help is doing, I guess,” Grantaire muttered.

“What, I should be content drinking my fucking conscious away like _you_ instead of trying to help kids get out of this shit? Shouldn’t you of _all people_ be more concerned with kids going over there and dying for nothing?”

Grantaire’s blood ran cold. “Don’t bring that up. My tour has nothing to do with this—“

“It has _everything_ to do with this!” Enjolras leaned forward, and Grantaire saw the anger, the pain, and the fire that burned in his eyes. “What kind of coward are you? How can you let young men follow in your footsteps to go commit atrocities in the jungle halfway around the world?”

Grantaire barely noticed his hand grabbing the empty beer bottle in front of him, and it was as if the world moved in slow motion as he chucked the bottle at the wall, standing up as it crashed and shattered on the floor. What few other patrons were in the bar fell silent, looking over at their table. Grantaire’s head was swirling, his hands were shaking, and he could _feel_ a panic attack coming on. His vision was growing fuzzy at the edges, and he knew he had to get out of the stuffy bar. Without looking at Enjolras or Combeferre, he turned on his heel and nearly ran out the door.

The fresh air hit him and he took a deep breath, walking across the street to a park he’d been to with Bahorel. The smell of the trees and the mulch was nothing like the smell of the trees and the undergrowth during the war. That smell was muggy, tropical, and heady. This was a fresh, Midwestern springtime; the rainwater didn’t pool on top the grass, it was absorbed to help the daffodils grow. It was the fresh smell of dusk, with the faint sounds of cars rushing past and the occasional chirp of a robin. The park was cultivated and clean, with the trees and flowers relegated to patches of grass between trails and benches; it wasn’t the wild and never-ending forest of Vietnam. Across the way, he saw a group of kids on the swing set.

The one thing his therapist had told him was to seek out reminders of the differences. Specific triggers would set off the panic attacks, but those triggers were isolated. He wasn’t in Vietnam; he was in Kent, Ohio.

Grantaire lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke, counting to seven before exhaling. Another technique. He was getting really good at these techniques; his therapist would be proud. As he took a second drag, he heard footsteps approaching and the heavy breathing of a man behind him. Without turning, Grantaire closed his eyes and stubbed out the cigarette against the bench, figuring he’d need his full concentration for this conversation.

“Grantaire, I—“ Enjolras began, voice shaky and out of breath. “I can’t even _begin_ to apologize for what happened back there. I mean, it was _completely_ unwarranted, and—“

Grantaire finally turned and looked Enjolras in the eye. His blue eyes, earlier filled with rage, were now only filled with regret. Regret, and discomfort. “Honestly, you weren’t wrong. We did some fucked up shit over there,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the park in front of him. Even as dusk fell, kids kept playing on the swing set, voices drifting out across the park.

“No, don’t defend my actions,” Enjolras tried again, “I shouldn’t have brought your tour into this. You of all people…you didn’t _choose_ this war. You didn’t _choose_ any of this, and it’s not your fault that things happened over there.”

“You think highly of me,” Grantaire chuckled darkly, “if you think I went screaming against my will to war. As if they had to drag me to boot camp, kicking and shouting ‘fuck the government’. I’m not one of your Amis, I don’t fight for anything.”

Enjolras was silent for a beat. Grantaire kept his eyes on the swing set.

“But you didn’t support the war—“

“What the _fuck_ , Enjolras, of course I didn’t support the war. I’m not an _idiot_.”

“Well then what do you mean?” Enjolras sounded confused, but with a polite lilt to his voice as if he was trying not to upset Grantaire.

Grantaire took a breath. “I mean, I wasn’t going to be a draft dodger, I was a coward. I went to war because it was the thing to do. Nothing more.” He pulled out another cigarette. Apparently, if they were doing the feelings talk, Grantaire needed something to occupy his soon-to-be shaking hands. “You know, I actually thought about going to Canada? Like, for a solid week or two when I first got my draft card, I was making plans and saving money, figuring out how I would get across the border. But…” He trailed off.

“But why didn’t you?” Enjolras asked, his voice still soft.

“Because if was embarrassed,” Grantaire said, looking down at his hands, cigarette burning slowly. “I just wasn’t brave enough to make that journey. I couldn’t imagine facing my family, or my town, or _anyone_ if they found out I dodged. I mean, Feuilly and Courf, they have you guys, and they know you’ll support them, but my family wasn’t like that. Fuck, I mean they were _proud_ of me when I got my summons. Thought it would finally give me a purpose in my life.”

He took a drag of the cigarette, trying to control his voice as a lump formed in his throat. “I mean, I _killed_ people, Enjolras. I saw people get killed right in front of my face. I saw my friends _die_ , and all because I was too fucking scared. When you called me a coward—“

“I still apologize deeply,” Enjolras interrupted.

Grantaire finally turned to face him, catching the wide and scared look in his eye. “But you were _right_. It’s the truth. I ended up part of this destructive force just because I was too cowardly to say no.” His voice broke on that last word, but he held Enjolras’s gaze. No point in backing down now; he might’ve been a coward then, but he wasn’t going to surrender here.

Enjolras was silent, lips parted, searching Grantaire’s face for something. Eventually, he spoke softly, but with the fierce determination of one of his speeches. “I can’t say anything about your motives for going over there, because I didn’t know you or what your life was like. But I can say something about you now, Grantaire, and I can say that you are incredibly brave. To come back, I mean.”

He broke off, and looked away, fingers running through his already wild hair. “I mean, God, I never thought about the bravery in coming back. It’s an incredibly courageous thing, and I’m so, _so_ sorry for doubting you.”

“Brave?” Grantaire scoffed. “It’s still cowardice. I saw my friends die, and I’m here, alive, because I hid in a goddamn foxhole instead of saving their lives.”

“No,” Enjolras pressed on. “There must have been a reason for you to come back. You gave us a new perspective, but you’ve done so much more. Maybe you came back to help Eponine and Cosette with whatever they’re doing. Maybe you came back to let Jehan doodle on your arms, or to help us separate our ideals from reality. Maybe you came back to keep us grounded.”

Grantaire thought back to what Courfeyrac said. Almost those same words. Keeping him grounded.

Enjolras continued. “I can’t say anything for certain, of course, but I wanted to apologize regardless. I did—I _do_ value your input. It may be crass and cynical, but it is important that we don’t surround ourselves with an echo chamber. And it’s my fault I didn’t keep my temper in check. So I apologize for what was said.”

“God, it’s fine,” Grantaire muttered, wanting to end the conversation. It was too deep for a park at dusk. “We’re fine. I accept your apology, whatever.” He exhaled smoke, watching two of the kids across the park chase each other in circles. Oh, to be young.

“Sorry about your event,” he said, trying to move the conversation forward when it was clear Enjolras wasn’t about to say anything. “Sucks.”

“Yeah, that’s putting it lightly,” Enjolras scoffed. “It’s just…why can’t people _see_ that we’re trying to make a difference. Why don’t they understand the value of this kind of work? What’s the point of going through life, avoiding the difficult questions and thinking that the world outside our little town is none of our concern?”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “I have nightmares, you know.”

“What?” Enjolras turned to him, clearly thrown.

“I mean, I have nightmares abut all the shit that went down over there. It’s like I’m reliving it every single night.”

“Yes, Bahorel mentioned—“ Enjolras responded, but Grantaire kept going. He needed to get this out.

“And when I remember all of the terrible stuff, when I think about how rustling bushes can send me into a panic, or how the scent of bug spray makes me think of my buddy dying, I start to see the point of what you and the Amis are doing. Because I _don’t_ want men to go through what I’ve gone through. I don’t want them to come back—or not come back at all—and see the things I’ve seen.” He blinked, looking back at Enjolras, who had that sad look in his eye again. “But…do you really think people will listen to you? Because kids like you have been shouting about the war even before it began. Why is this time any different?”

“It has to be,” Enjolras said, in that declaratory voice he used to inspire unsuspecting undergrads. “It’s got to be different, because at some point, they’ll realize they can’t silence us forever. The people will rise up, and demand a change. At the march in D.C. last year, we had over a hundred thousand people marching towards the White House. Nixon and his stooges can’t ignore that, they _can’t._ I believe in the power we have, the power a group of individuals can have on the world. They can’t ignore us forever.”

He was spewing bullshit, Grantaire knew that much, but it was passionate. It was clichés spoken with the upmost devotion, and Grantaire knew Enjolras believed in what he was saying. He truly believed that he would be the one to change the world. That with enough passion, and enough force, they could end injustices six thousand miles away. It was the kind of devotion Grantaire found exceptionally beautiful.

Grantaire moved forward without thinking, pressing his lips softly to Enjolras’. It was a chaste kiss, nothing more than a second before Grantaire came to his senses and pulled back.

“Oh, god, I—“ he began.

Enjolras just smiled, a sweet and private smile, and held out his hand. Grantaire took it, inhaling on his cigarette with his other hand. They stood in silence, hands clasped between them, and watched the kids on the swing set. Grantaire figured that, even if this activism stuff was bullshit, at least one good thing had come out of his meeting the Amis.

 

+-+-+-

 

Things began to change, and mostly for the better. Grantaire’s job at the gas station was going well, and his nightmares were becoming less burdensome with each day. His art was less violent, and soon he was introducing vibrant golds and greens into the abstractions, breaking up the slashes of red and black which had dominated the canvasses for so long. It wasn’t like his world had changed over night, but it was a start. He could feel himself becoming centered.

Of course, the kiss with Enjolras was definitely a highlight. They hadn’t done anything since that evening in the park, but Grantaire would walk into the Musain and be greeted with a genuine smile, and Enjolras made an effort to speak to him now about his life, his art, _anything._ If Grantaire knew better, he would say it was an Enjolras-attempt at flirting. It wasn’t like they were suddenly going steady, but Grantaire had to admit he now had more reasons than his friends to show up at the Musain.

Grantaire wasn’t the only person who had noticed this change. Combeferre spoke with him a day after the kiss, making sure that everything had been alright, mentioning that Enjolras had returned that evening out of sorts.

“I just wanted to make sure he actually apologized. He was really torn up about it when he went after you, but he was acting odd later that evening. Did you notice anything?”

_I noticed the blush on his cheeks after I kissed him, I noticed how soft his hands were, I noticed how lovely his lips were when they were in a soft smile._ Grantaire didn’t say any of that.

“No, he seemed fine when he left. We had a heart to heart, you know us, always talking about our feelings.”

Combeferre chuckled, patting him on the back. “I’m glad you two made up. You’re good for each other.”

“I’ve never been a good influence on anyone,” Grantaire snorted.

Combeferre just grinned, and patted him on the shoulder.

It was all going well, and that’s where Grantaire started to get suspicious. A steady job, a group of friends, people who made his life fulfilling and helped him escape the nightmares, it was all too good to be true. Sometimes, Grantaire hated when he was right.

On a Tuesday in April, Grantaire was regaling Jehan, Feuilly, and Marius with a story from his tour. His buddy, Samson, found a puppy on one of their missions; a raggedy little mutt he ended up naming Achilles. Grantaire dramatized the adventures of Achilles and Samson, ignoring the ending where Achilles was blown up by a landmine three weeks after they found him. Sometimes, Grantaire was annoyed that he couldn’t even tell a funny story without someone dying.

In the middle of his story, Grantaire was interrupted by the Musain door bursting open, Enjolras striding through like an avenging angel with Courfeyrac and Combeferre by his side.th “I can’t _fucking_ believe this!” Enjolras was raving, throwing a newspaper down on the table. Grantaire felt his jaw drop open, as he’d never heard Enjolras cuss before. It was truly an experience, but turned out he wasn’t done.

“Does the administration _seriously_ expect us to just accept this as another part of the war? All that shit about protecting the free world? Complete _bullshit_! We can’t just sit here expecting to be heard while Nixon and McNamara are literally invading _sovereign nations_ to serve their own interests!”

Luckily, Grantaire wasn’t the first to interrupt his tirade.

“Uh, sorry, but what’s happening?” Marius asked timidly, jolting in his seat as Enjolras turned his glare onto the redhead.

“Didn’t you watch the news last night?” Enjolras snarled, “or was your family too busy celebrating the number of people who would _die_ because of policy your grandfather no doubt had a role in passing?”

Marius’ face turned bright red, and Grantaire stood up, putting himself in between Marius and Enjolras.

“Okay, Enjolras, that’s enough. Obviously we’re not all as well-read as you three, so why don’t you stop harassing Marius here and start explaining what’s got you in a tizzy?”

Enjolras met his eyes, and Grantaire saw a number of emotions flash through them. Anger, confusion, annoyance, eventually settling on resolve.

“Of course, I apologize, Marius,” Enjolras said, after a beat.

There was silence around them, until Courfeyrac piped up. “Uh, I know we’ve got bigger issues, but did that just happen?” He swiveled to face Grantaire. “Did you just get Enjolras to apologize in the middle of his tirade? That’s _never_ happened! What’s your secret?”

Grantaire spluttered, and he saw Enjolras redden. “I, uh, I dunno? I mean—“

“Alright, Courf, we get it,” Enjolras interrupted, and Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re right, we _do_ have bigger things to focus on.” With nothing but a slight nod to Grantaire, he turned away, addressing the group of students at large. “For those who are not as well-read, Nixon gave an address last night saying he has plans to direct troops into Cambodia. Nixon and Abrams say they want to deal with the Viet Cong encampments near the border, but what this really amounts to is an invasion of a _neutral_ nation in pursuit of world control. He says this is a defensive maneuver, but we know better. It is an expansion of the war. This is proof that the President and his cabinet are willing to extend this wasted war beyond the borders of Vietnam, meaning they have no intention of ending it soon. What we thought were signs of a shift in mentality were just a cover; they mean to continue this battle well into the next decade.”

Enjolras’ speeches, even as impromptu tirades, were nothing less than brilliance. Grantaire could see it in his eyes, proof that he truly believed he could change the world; stop any injustice in its tracks. When he was in his element, Grantaire felt something stir in his heart, as if he could see a light beyond the darkness. As if the actions of these students weren’t an exercise in futility. Hands curled in fists, gesturing wildly around him as he preached, Grantaire almost felt like his anger could carry him to the White House to give Nixon the good punch in the gut he deserved. Just maybe.

Grantaire focused back on the conversation at hand, and the shouts of injustices and inequities, interlaced with curse words—particularly from Courfeyrac—were slowing.

“Listen, my friends,” Enjolras began as the shouting died down around him. “This is the moment we have been waiting for. All of the work we have done up until now, with protests and the clinic and trying to change public perception on this war, it has all been a prelude. We will prove to them, once and for all, that the will of the people cannot be avoided. It is our _right_ to have a say in the affairs of our country, and Nixon’s plans are a blatant disregard for the opinion of the public. I know the students of Kent feel the same; we need to plan something which will remind those _fucking murderers_ what democracy truly means!”

Grantaire decided, right then and there, that Enjolras cursing was a gift from above. His lips were made for political tirades and cuss words. Grantaire briefly considered how those words would sound against his own lips, but he banished the thought. The rest of the room lay under Enjolras’ spell, stars in their eyes.

Combeferre broke in, bringing everyone back to earth. “We want to plan a protest, something bigger than we’ve ever done on campus. It needs to be a city-wide affair, something that will bring the people out and draw attention to the injustices Nixon is hoping to cover up with wartime propaganda.” He turned to Courfeyrac, on the other side of Enjolras. “You got in touch with the old SDS kids, right? I spoke with the Black Student Organization, and they’re on board with our plan. Hopefully, we can bring the fight to Nixon with a combined effort of students from all the activist organizations on campus.”

Courfeyrac nodded, grinning. “Gentlemen,” he began, grabbing Enjolras’ arm and raising it in the air, “let the revolution begin!”

Cheers went up around the room, with everyone raising a glass and stomping their feet. Grantaire watched as Enjolras surveyed them all, a genuine smile on his face. When his eyes reached Grantaire, he frowned slightly, but nodded. Grantaire lifted his bottle in response.

With the speechmaking nearly complete, planning commenced. Jehan offered to draw up poster designs, Feuilly agreeing to help plaster them around town. Combeferre enlisted Marius and Joly as his diplomatic emissaries to the other campus activist groups, and Courfeyrac proposed chants and protest songs, making use of Nixon’s less-savory nicknames. The energy in the Musain was electric, and Enjolras stood above it, watching and directing, a Roman cavalry leader surveying his legions.

Although, Grantaire assumed, Enjolras probably wouldn’t take too kindly to military allusions.

The world continued to whirl around him, and Grantaire sat in the middle of it all and drank. People came and went, Jehan drawing up sketches in one corner and Enjolras arguing with Joly about how serious some of the socialist groups would be in their protest, and Grantaire played witness to it all. He knew better than to get involved. Not only because he didn’t have much to offer a movement like this, but also because they were destined for failure. Regardless of what Enjolras’ speeches may have stirred in him, Grantaire still knew this protest wouldn’t lead to anything. That fact alone made him more melancholy then he’d thought possible. He took another drink.

Eventually, Enjolras made his way over to where Grantaire was sitting, alone. Bahorel had shown up halfway through the evening, willing to join the rest of the Amis in their planning and protesting, and he had abandoned Grantaire to his drinking in solitude fairly early on. Grantaire figured he wasn’t the best company, and he wouldn’t make an effort to change it, no matter who showed up.

Even Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” he began, clearing his throat. “I was wondering, will you be joining us during the event? Right now, we’re planning on next week for most of the protest events to be held.”

Grantaire smiled and lifted his bottle. “I’ll be here, Weatherman, but I’m not going to die for you. Not today.”

At first, Grantaire thought Enjolras was going to argue. Make some remark about the uselessness of that kind of cynicism, how if he was just going to make snide comments, he might as well leave. He’d said all those things before, and Grantaire knew there was more than a grain of truth to them.

Instead, Enjolras relented. He rested a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, a firm reminder of when Grantaire had felt those same hands inside his own, and gave a grim smile. “Well,” he said, voice soft and unlike the sharpness Grantaire had been expecting. “We—I will welcome you if you choose to support us.” He gave a firm nod, turned, and walked away, leaving Grantaire with only his bottle for comfort.

Since when did Enjolras accept Grantaire’s cynicism as fact? Every time they had met, spoke, argued, Enjolras had seen his argumentative nature as an obstacle to overcome. It was never enough for Enjolras that Grantaire showed up, enjoyed the company of his friends; even after the kiss, Grantaire knew Enjolras would never be willing to compromise his worldview for what could have been.

There was some comfort in repetition. Half the reason Grantaire continued to spite Enjolras, taunted him with words he knew would anger, was to get that reaction. And now? Enjolras was content to leave Grantaire to his beer, had accepted his blasé response with barely any hesitation. Did that mean he thought there was some truth to Grantaire’s words? Did he see something in this protest as more than a demonstration?

_I’m not going to die for you. Not today_.

Bahorel walked towards his table, interrupting his thoughts as those words continued to swirl around his head.

“What was that about?” Bahorel asked, nodding in Enjolras’ direction.

Grantaire just sighed. “Those kids are going to get themselves shot if they keep it up like this.”

Bahorel nodded, taking a seat next to Grantaire. “Better to be shot fighting for something good, I guess,” he said, taking a drink of his beer.

Grantaire didn’t respond. They drank in silence as the Amis worked passionately around them.

 

+-+-+-

 

The following days, Grantaire knew plans had been set in motion and whatever events Enjolras was organizing would soon come to fruition, but he did his best to ignore it all. He already rarely went near the Kent State campus, but he put even more effort into avoiding it. Sometimes, he saw Bahorel at the bar, but more often than not he was busy with Feuilly or Courfeyrac, trying to convince some communist prick on campus that the anti-war movement means just as much as class struggle. Grantaire couldn’t care less. Whatever passionate response Enjolras had clearly planned to get back at Nixon, it wasn’t going to work, and there was no point in pretending.

It was during one of his more despondent moods that he stumbled into the Musain, one afternoon, expecting to see the regulars chatting and planning as usual, but faced only with Eponine behind the bar and Cosette directly in front of her. The sight of the two of them, dewy-eyed and in love, lifted Grantaire’s heart a bit.

“Where’s the gang?” He asked, pulling a stool up next to Cosette, who playfully nudged his shoulder with her own. “Is it Sunday? Does planning a revolution take a day of rest as the good Lord intended?”

Eponine just rolled her eyes. “They’re working in Lamarque’s classroom today,” she said, popping the top off of a bottle of beer and passing it to Grantaire. “Which you would know, if you ever bothered to see us anymore.”

Grantaire frowned. “I see you all the time. I’m here more often than I’m in my own home.”

“But it’s not the same,” Cosette interjects. “You’ve been avoiding us whenever we talk about the protest, and since that’s most of the time, you don’t engage.”

“It’s not my fault I’m not some idealistic college kid like them; I just don’t want to be involved,” Grantaire muttered, ignoring the sullen quality of his voice. He really didn’t want to start anything, but apparently his mouth was feeling antagonistic today.

Cosette whirled on him, here short black hair framing a sharp look on her face. “Do you know why I’m not in Lamarque’s classroom right now? My father forbid me from take part in whatever Enjolras is planning. He says it’s not a good way to go about making a change, and that my involvement will hurt whatever he’s trying to do in the Senate.”

“I hope you told him to fuck off, darling,” Eponine drawled, smiling at them across the bar. Cosette’s face went soft as she turned towards Eponine. “Not in those words exactly,” she said with a grin. “But I _did_ tell him that sometimes you need more than legislative authority to make a difference. What Enjolras and the Amis are doing, it’s _something_ and it makes me feel useful. With this, we’re going to get a reaction.”

Grantaire felt his heart sink. “You really think so? Must be nice, believing in them that much.”

“Of course I believe in them,” Cosette said, with all the certainty she could muster. “They’re trying to change the world, what do I gain by tearing them down?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Grantaire muttered, taking a drink of his beer. “Believe me, if I could see a point in what you all are doing, I’d join up in an instant.”

“Don’t you ever get tired?” Eponine said, her voice softer than Grantaire expected. “You’ve been back, what, almost five months? This isn’t the war, Grantaire this is real life. You can’t just live day by day, you need to find something to live for.” She reached over for Cosette’s hand and took it gently. “A person, a future, an ideal, what does it matter? Certain things make life worth living.”

“But are they worth dying for?” Grantaire regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Eponine’s face shuttered, and she turned away from Grantaire with force. Walking around the bar, she took Cosette’s hand again, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. Compared to her actions, her words were sharp: “I’m not going to sit here and indulge your self-centered cynicism. Cosette has to be on campus in a few, and I’m going to walk her there. You can look after the bar and close up, God knows you’ve been here often enough to get the hang of it.”

“Ep—“ Grantaire began, but she was already walking out the door with Cosette, who gave Grantaire a sympathetic glance on her way out.

The door to the Musain swung open, and Bahorel made room for Eponine and Cosette to walk out, grinning at them. When he turned back into the Musain, he caught a glimpse of Grantaire, arms across his chest and frowning at the retreating figures of Eponine and Cosette. Grantaire didn’t know what was showing on his face, but it couldn’t have been good, from the way Bahorel was looking at him.

“Is everything alright?” Bahorel began as Grantaire heaved himself off the stool to take his place behind the bar. There were only three other people in the bar, and Eponine had a point. Grantaire knew the Musain like the back of his hand, and could hold his own behind the bar. That didn’t mean he enjoyed being left to sulk.

“What was that all about?” Bahorel asked, searching Grantaire’s eyes.

“Nothing, just not looking forward to watching all my friends throw their lives away.” Grantaire familiarized himself with the bar around him, ignoring the stern look Bahorel was definitely giving him. He knew his comments were too much, sometimes, but he couldn’t help it. If he pretended they weren’t doomed, if he felt even the fleeting glimpse of hope, he wouldn’t survive the failure. With a sigh, Grantaire grabbed a bottle of beer for himself, preparing to settle in for a long and probably dull evening. “Want me to get you anything? Ep left me in charge, so we can put it on her tab. Its only fair.”

Bahorel chuckled, but shook his head. “No thanks, I just wanted to stop by and see if you wanted to get dinner with Feuilly and I? He mentioned that burger joint around the corner.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Grantaire said. “Speaking of, is there something going on between you two?” He winked, and Bahorel just laughed.

“Never one to beat around the bush, were you, R?” He leaned over the bar, eyes focusing on Grantaire. “I’d tell you, if you tell me what’s going on with you and Enjolras.”

Grantaire leaned back. “Touché,” he said, smiling. But he wasn’t going to be tricked into a conversation about his feelings. Those were for long nights, smoking stolen cigarettes behind the barracks at boot camp, confessing to Bahorel for the first time that maybe he liked boys as well as girls. He remembered Bahorel’s strong arm, winding around his shoulder as he pulled him into a hug, whispering that yeah, maybe he felt the same way too sometimes. “Well, I’m stuck here for the rest of the evening, but give Feuilly my best. He’s a good kid, they all are.”

Bahorel pursed his lips. “Fine, but you’ll let me know if you want to talk, yeah? I’m around.”

Grantaire nodded, and watched as Bahorel gave a cheerful wave and walked out of the Musain, going to do God knows what with Feuilly. In the end, Grantaire couldn’t even begrudge him. It was like Cosette and Eponine; might as well have a few moments of happiness amongst the general drudgery of life. Even if that wasn’t in store for him, Grantaire knew better than to wish his misery on others.

With the other patrons in the Musain shuffling around and keeping their conversation to a minimum, Grantaire was alone with his thoughts and the empty glasses behind the bar. Eponine’s words rattled around in his head, and he tried to ignore the flashes of blonde hair and passionate chants which wouldn’t lead to anything good. The blonde hair in his mind turned bright crimson, matted with blood, and Grantaire heard the screams of Reynolds and Jackson around him. He shook his head, taking another sip of beer. He meant what he’d said earlier. He wasn’t going to watch them die.

 

-+-+-+-

 

The days continued like that. Sometimes, Grantaire would stop by the bar and cover for Eponine when she went out to protest or do whatever the Amis were up to, and sometimes he’d stay at home shutting all his windows and ignoring the sounds of chanting and shouts that he could hear from his window. Most of the time, he was drunk; a bottle or flask in his hand, Grantaire did his best to drown out the reminder of losing all his friends once before, and watching it happen all over again.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre stopped by the Musain at one point, and at first Grantaire thought they were there to proselytize. But, with few other people inside the bar, Grantaire figured they had an ulterior motive. With a smile in Grantaire’s direction, they made their way over to his table, clothes dusty but generally unharmed. Grantaire caught a glimpse of a bruise yellowing on Courfeyrac’s cheek, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre began, noting the flask in his hand and grimacing. “We wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay. No one’s seen you in a bit. I know you’re not interested in the protest itself, but we’d still love to see you.”

“We normally hang out at Enjolras and Combeferre’s place in the evening,” Courfeyrac chimed in. “You should come by tonight, everyone would love to see you.”

Grantaire snorted. “I appreciate the thought, guys, really. But I’d only end up making you all upset. It’s better I stay away until it’s all over.”

_By you all,_ he thinks, _I mean Enjolras._

Combeferre had a thoughtful look on his face, and Grantaire worried that he would catch the unintended meaning in his words. Luckily, he chose not to comment on it. “We wanted to ask anyways.” He said, always the diplomat.

Grantaire took another sip of his flask. “How’s it going, anyways?”

“You really want to know?” Courfeyrac asked, eyes alight. He pulled up a chair next to Grantaire and smiled. “It’s wild out there. I mean I’m sure you’ve seen the posters, and heard some of the chants, but it’s getting crazier with each hour it feels. It’s _electric_.”

Combeferre nodded, looking more composed than his friend. “Logistically, Governor Rhodes just issued a state of emergency a little bit ago, and some of our protesters have been hit with tear gas when the National Guard tried to clear us off the streets. Apparently, Rhodes thought we weren’t being kind enough to the local police, as if the National Guard would cause us to relent. Tomorrow, we’re focusing on the demonstration on campus. You know the Commons? Out near the Liberty Bell? That’s where we’re planning to be.”

Courfeyrac put his hand on top of Grantaire’s, looking him in the eye. “We miss, you, R, and we’d love to see you there. It’s going to be amazing.”

Grantaire snorted and took his hand away from Courfeyrac. “I’ll think about it, but I doubt it.” He ignored the hurt look in Courfeyrac’s eyes as he stood up, pressing a gentle hand to Grantaire’s shoulder before walking over to the bar.

Combeferre looked at him for a moment before speaking. “I think he’d really like it if you were there,” he said softly. “He hasn’t said anything, but I’m sure he misses you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire muttered, looking away.

Combeferre didn’t try to say any more, for which Grantaire was grateful. After a few minutes silence, Combeferre stood up and, getting Courfeyrac’s attention, left the Musain. Finishing his flask, Grantaire nodded at the weekend bartender and began to make his way back home, resigned to a fitful evening of what ifs and maybes.

That night, Grantaire dreamt of Samson and Achilles. Samson’s dull, lifeless eyes when Achilles was blown up, the acrid smell of burning flesh that was either dog or human, it was difficult to tell. He woke with a start, breathing heavily, just as the sun was beginning to rise. His dreams were a constant reminder of how helpless Grantaire was. He didn’t save Achilles, or Reynolds, or Jackson. He just stood there, screaming for help, and realizing that no one was coming. In the jungle, it was every man for himself, and Grantaire could barely keep himself alive.

That didn’t stop the guilt.

Grantaire thought about all of the effort he’d put into surviving, dragging himself through hell to end up back in Kent drinking himself into a stupor. He’d made it out of the war alive, had dealt with a bullet wound and a messed up brain, and what did he have to show for it? A tiny apartment and a few slashes of paint on a canvas. If he had put so much effort into making it back home, what was he doing here? Sitting in his room, ignoring his new group of friends, just to feel safe?

Did he even _feel_ safe?

He thought back to what Enjolras had said the night they kissed. The bravery in coming back, in keeping himself alive long enough to see his home again. Every day in Vietnam, he’d woken up resigned to his death. It was as normal as breathing. Inhale, I’m going to die. Exhale, maybe not today, but tomorrow. Inhale, it’s going to happen. Exhale, I can’t do anything about it.

But he was still here. He had a fucked up leg and nightmares that wouldn’t let him sleep, but he was still here. What was he doing, now that he had survived?

Enjolras would probably say it was courageous, his survival. Grantaire wasn’t sure if he could believe that, but he wanted to try. If there was anyone who could make Grantaire believe it, it was Enjolras. Even if he wasn’t going to change the world in one day, Grantaire couldn’t help the flame of hope that burned in his chest. He took a deep breath, and finally got out of bed.

 

+-+-+-+-

 

With the hope still alive in his chest, Grantaire made his way across town to the university campus. As he walked down the deserted streets, signs of the protest—revolution—lit the way. Empty tear gas canisters, broken windows, posters and pamphlets littered along the sidewalks, signs of a struggle.

He heard the shouting as he got closer, a mass of students at least a thousand strong in front of a hastily built stage. In the distance, on top of the hill, Grantaire could make out the National Guardsmen, menacing in their uniforms with guns strapped to their chest. Grantaire ignored them, choosing instead to focus on the blonde figure who stepped up to the stage in a bright-red jacket with gold trimming.

He walked forward, feeling swept up in the fervor of the students. When Enjolras spoke, the crowd stood at attention; Grantaire had never seen a group of college kids listening so fixedly. His words were bold, but Enjolras said them with such intensity that Grantaire knew he believed them wholeheartedly. It was nothing new, the same rhetoric he’d been preaching in the Musain for the past five months, but something stirred in Grantaire. It was that little bit of hope, all the more enthralled by Enjolras’ grandiloquence.

When he finished his speech, a roar went up in the crowd, and Grantaire jostled his way to the front. Off to the side of the stage stood the majority of the Amis; Courfeyrac and Combeferre dressed for a protest; Joly, Jehan and Marius handing out flyers to different groups of students; Bahorel and Feuilly, laughing and shouting vulgar slogans; Cosette and Eponine, holding hands, their eyes lighting up when they noticed Grantaire.

Grantaire gave a brief wave to the group, focusing on the man in red walking down the steps of the stage. Enjolras’ eyes lit up when he noticed Grantaire, and he rushed forward, pulling Grantaire into a tight hug.

“You _came_ ,” he said breathlessly, and Grantaire let himself take a deep breath and hug him even tighter.

“Of course,” he said, pulling away from Enjolras slightly. Arms still loosely around his back, Grantaire took in the black eye and scrape on his chin, and a rush of cold air went through his heart. He turned and looked at the bruise he’d noticed earlier on Courfeyrac, Feuilly’s battered knuckles, and the tear in Jehan’s sleeve. These kids were getting beat up for what they believed in; it was the least Grantaire could do to stand with them and protect them as best he could.

“How’re things here, Weatherman?” Grantaire said with a grin.

Enjolras smiled at him, humming softly as another speaker took to the stage. “You know,” he said softly, with an air of secrecy around him. “I always rather enjoyed that nickname.”

Grantaire laughed. “Why do you think I kept using it?”

Even as they broke out of a hug, Enjolras stayed close, one hand in Grantaire’s and one raised up in a fist, shouting slogans and cheering with the crowd. Somewhere, someone rang the Liberty Bell, the sound chiming amongst the calls of “ _pigs off campus!”_ Grantaire stood with Enjolras at his side, surrounded by his friends, swept up in the excitement of it all. He turned to catch a glimpse of Enjolras’ face, basking in the revolutionary fervor alight in his eyes. Perhaps, just maybe, this was the one thing he could believe in.

Of course, then it all had to go to shit.

An air horn sounded, and the speaker on stage broke off and turned towards the National Guard.

“This is an unlawful protest,” came a voice on the loudspeaker, “leave the grounds in an orderly fashion, this is an illegal gathering!”

Grantaire watched as the National Guard began to move forward, regimented and slow, but constant. Shouts and curses rose up from the crowd, with Enjolras and the Amis as riled up as any. The energy which just moments ago had been uplifting and passionate turned angry, as students railed against the approaching guards. Grantaire saw a few kids throwing sticks in the direction of the Guard, but never close enough to hurt. Flags were waving, the chants were continuing, and even the threat of the National Guard wasn’t swaying the voice of the students.

Then, the tear gas came. Canisters went flying over Grantaire’s head, the choking gas blooming around them. The shouts turned to screams, and Grantaire watched as people began to run. Next to him, Courfeyrac grabbed a gas canister and lobbed it back towards the troops. Through his irritated eyes, Grantaire watched as the gas-masked National Guardsmen continued to move towards the crowd.

Heartbeat quickening, Grantaire turned to Enjolras. “We have to go,” he choked out, “We need to get out of here.” He started tugging at Enjolras’ arms, looking around the pandemonium for the other Amis but not seeing them anywhere. Bodies were moving in all directions, and the haze of gas prevented Grantaire from seeing anything but Enjolras’ hand in his.

“They’re not going to shoot, Grantaire,” Enjolras said fiercely, “we’re _peaceful protesters_.” He ended up shouting the last bit, fist in the air, holding his ground.

For a brief second, Grantaire thought he was right. The National Guardsmen were retreating, but then Grantaire saw a few of them turn back towards the protesters, and he heard the familiar sound of gunshots ring out.

Chaos erupted. Those who weren’t yet screaming started, and then began to run. Grantaire tugged at Enjolras’ arm, pulling him away from the stage and tried to get them out of firing range. He was suddenly reminded of the screams of villagers in Chu Lai whose voices were filled with the same fear as these college students. Faced with a bullet shooting out of a gun, it didn’t matter where you were from, or who you were. Everyone’s voice betrayed the utter fear of death. For a minute, Grantaire couldn’t tell where he was. The screams of twenty-something college kids and elderly Vietnamese villagers filled his head, and in the haze of the tear gas, Grantaire thought he saw a rice paddy in the distance.

He was jolted out of his flashback by a tug at his hand, and he heard Enjolras shout and fall to the ground beside him. Grantaire turned, his mouth opening in a scream as he saw the familiar sight of blood blooming on Enjolras’ chest. He met Enjolras’ eyes, kneeling down beside him on the grass, and he watched the light die as Enjolras took a few choking breathes. He pulled Enjolras into his chest, unable to get any words or shouts out. Enjolras’ eyes twitched and Grantaire thought of Reynolds, of Jackson, of Samson, of his company and his brothers and his friends who had died before him.

As Enjolras took one last, shuddering breath, lying still in Grantaire’s arms, Grantaire looked up for one brief moment and it was as if time slowed down around him, the bullet moving towards him with perfect clarity amongst the tumult. He felt it pierce his chest, and realized what was happening. He had survived a war just to die on a college campus.

The pain in his chest was dulled as he felt himself losing consciousness, and with one final bout of strength, he lay down on the grass next to Enjolras’ body, the screams and shouts around him fading into the background.

_At least_ , he thought _, this time I’m dying for something I believe in_. With that, Grantaire closed his eyes, and found peace.

 

Epilogue:

 

**Four Kent State Students Killed By Troops**

By John Kifner.

The New York Times.

KENT, Ohio, May 4.

Four students at Kent State University, two of them women, were shot to death this afternoon by a volley of National Guard gunfire. At least 8 other students were wounded.

The burst of gunfire came about 20 minutes after the guardsmen broke up a noon rally on the Commons, a grassy campus gathering spot, by lobbing tear gas at a crowd of about 1,000 young people.

In Washington, President Nixon deplored the deaths of the four students in the following statement:

“This should remind us all once again that when dissent turns to violence it invites tragedy. It is my hope that this tragic and unfortunate incident will strengthen the determination of all the nation's campuses, administrators, faculty and students alike to stand firmly for the right which exists in this country of peaceful dissent and just as strongly against the resort to violence as a means of such expression.”

At 2:10 this afternoon, after the shootings, the university president, Robert I. White, ordered the university closed for an indefinite time, and officials were making plans to evacuate the dormitories and bus out of‐state students to nearby cities.

Robinson Memorial Hospital identified the dead students as Allison Krause, 19 years old, of Pittsburgh; Sandra Lee Scheuer, 20, of Youngstown, Ohio, both coeds: Timothe Enjolras, 22 years old of Kent, Ohio; and Remy Grantaire, 24 years old, a recently returned veteran of the war.

While Scheuer was not known to have participated in the protest, Krause, Enjolras, and Grantaire were participants, with Enjolras leading a group of students who have been protesting the war and the draft lottery since last year.

The youths stood stunned, many of them clustered in small groups staring at the bodies. A young man cradled one of the bleeding forms in his arms. Several girls began to cry. But many of the students who rushed to the scene seemed almost too shocked to react. Several gathered around an abstract steel sculpture in front of the building and looked at a .30‐caliber bullet hole drilled through one of the plates.

The hospital said that six young people were being treated for gunshot wounds, some in the intensive care unit. The two young men who were killed were dead on arrival at the hospital. 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> -SDS stands for Students for a Democratic Society.  
> -I nicknamed Enjolras “Weatherman” instead of “Apollo” because 1. Grantaire in this story isn’t as mythology-oriented and 2. I feel like it’s the kind of insult/epithet 1960s Enjolras would LOVE because he’s the kind of activist who thinks the Weather Underground were the bees knees  
> -a lot of Grantaire’s flashbacks and stories about Vietnam are loosely based on stuff from The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. It’s one of my favorite Vietnam War books and its really fucking sad if you ever want to get that kind of melancholy vibe! I highly recommend it to everyone, and also to those who have read it, sorry because I stole a ton of it lol.   
> -David Harris was a really cool anti-war organizer in California who led protests against the draft, having draftees flat out refuse to go to war and then serve prison sentences, using the legal system to try to overturn the draft.  
> -the excerpt from the New York Times at the end is based on this real story, I just changed the names a bit: https://www.nytimes.com/1970/05/05/archives/4-kent-state-students-killed-by-troops-8-hurt-as-shooting-follows.html


End file.
